


They're Playing Our Song

by lamardeuse



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The progress of a relationship over three dances, seventy-six years, and a lot of cheesy Glenn Miller music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They're Playing Our Song

**Author's Note:**

> Download the soundtrack for this story [here](http://puddle-wonderful.ca/ot/theyreplayingoursong.zip).

_Roseland Ballroom, Broadway at 51_ _st_ _Street, Manhattan_  
_July, 1939_  
  
  
  
  
For Steve's twenty-first birthday, Bucky gets him a girl.  
  
Not like that – it's not like Bucky _pays_ her to go out with him – though Steve doesn't think he'd have a date tonight if there hadn't been the added incentive of tickets to Glenn Miller's sold out show at the Roseland. Maisie and her friend Grace, Bucky's date, are stenographers with IBM. Steve has no idea how Bucky met them; neither of them is his usual type. They're the kind of working-class girls who like to tell themselves they're not working class, but then they're originally from Ohio, and Steve guesses they think differently there. Bucky usually can't stand “fakes” like that, as he calls them, but since Steve hasn't had much luck with any of the other girls he's thrown at him, maybe Bucky's decided to broaden his horizons.  
  
Steve knows that Bucky doesn't even like Glenn Miller all that much – he's kind of square compared to some of the other band leaders, like Duke Ellington and Artie Shaw – but the Savoy is having a lindy competition tonight featuring Chick Webb's band, and Bucky figures that's not Steve's idea of a swell time. Actually, that's not strictly true: Steve ventures uptown with him every so often, and he loves to sit back and watch Bucky dance the way they do at the Savoy, watch his hips undulate like a flowing river in time with the beat, watch him joyous and free, lost in the music. He's all loose-limbed grace, steps nimble and precise, and in the next moment he's all power as he takes a girl by the hips and lifts her as though she were made of air. Steve's overheard a couple of the girls say that Bucky dances real good for a white boy, and he privately agrees with them. Bucky is never more beautiful than when he's in motion.  
  
Bucky thinks Steve doesn't enjoy sitting on the sidelines, that it's cruel to remind him of things he can't do, can't have. What he doesn't know is that Steve's reminded of what he can never have every time he looks at Bucky. It's nothing new; in fact, after all these years there's a strange comfort in the familiarity of it.  
  
At the Roseland, the dancing is more sedate, and Miller is famous for his ballads. Bucky's right: there's no way Steve would be able to keep up with the world class lindy-hopping at the Savoy, but there are enough men here with two left feet that he comes out somewhere in the middle of the pack. His asthma's been pretty quiet lately, and he doesn't get winded as quickly as he usually does. Bucky's chosen to take this as a sign Steve's finally outgrowing his childhood ailments, but Steve knows they'll never go away. They're a part of him as surely as the way he feels about Bucky is a part of him. His heart doesn't work right; never has, never will.  
  
Still, he can't find it in him to get sore about the way he was made. It's never going to change, so why gripe about it? Besides, there are plenty of people in worse jams than he is.  
  
Maisie is actually a really nice girl, once he gets talking to her; she's a lot more down-to-earth than he'd been expecting, for one thing. And when she finds out he likes to draw, she says, “You're an artist! I secretly always wanted to be one myself.”  
  
“I wouldn't say I'm an artist,” Steve demurs, “but tell me more about you.”  
  
“Well, I've always loved the idea of painting – everything about it. My favourites are the Impressionists, but I've been learning more about Picasso and some other contemporary artists since the new museum opened last month.”  
  
“I haven't made it there yet,” Steve admits. He's wanted to go, but he works twelve-hour shifts as a soda jerk, and on his rare days off, he's usually too beat to do much of anything but draw, read a little and sleep. “I'm hoping to soon.”  
  
“Oh, you have to! It's amazing. I'd go there every other day if I could.”  
  
“So you studied painting? Are you still doing it?”  
  
“Gosh, no. I've never painted anything in my life besides my parents' fence.” She shrugs. “I drew a little when I was younger, but it was – you know – kids' stuff.”  
  
Steve leans forward. “There's no shortage of art classes if you want to learn. You can even get 'em for free through the WPA.”  
  
“Do you think I could?”  
  
Steve frowns. “Sure, why not?”  
  
Maisie shrugs. “I didn't see a lot of girls' names up on those walls.”  
  
“You've heard of Georgia O'Keeffe, right? Frida Kahlo?” Maisie nods. “And there are plenty of others. Just because there aren't a lot of famous women artists, that doesn't mean women can't make art. It only means museums and galleries are run by men.”  
  
Maisie regards him for a long moment. “You're not exactly a typical fella, are you?”  
  
Steve can feel his face reddening; there's a stone sitting in his gut. “Oh, no,” Maisie adds hastily, “believe me, I mean that as a compliment.”  
  
“Oh,” Steve says, smiling crookedly. “Thanks?”  
  
Maisie laughs, though it fades as her attention is caught by something on the dance floor. Steve follows the line of her gaze and his own smile disappears.  
  
“Your friend's a swell dancer,” Maisie observes.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve answers, though it isn't a question. They're playing _Wham Re-bop Boom Bam,_ which Steve knows to be one of their latest hits because he loaded it into the drugstore jukebox a couple of weeks ago. It's got a slow, loping beat to it, and Bucky tugs Grace to him, then spins her away. She's good, too, trucking back to him with a spring in her step.  
  
_Some folks say that swing won't stay_  
_And it's dying out_  
_But I can prove it's in the groove_  
_And they don't know what they're talking about_  
  
Steve tears his gaze away, embarassed to think that Maisie's probably caught him staring, but when he turns back around, she's still watching them intently. There's a look on her face that confuses him at first, because it would be odd for her to be jealous of her friend considering she'd just met Bucky for the first time tonight. And then it hits him, and he can barely breathe for the shock of it.  
  
It's not her friend she's jealous of. It's Bucky.  
  
“Maisie?” She startles at the sound of her name, then flushes bright red, and God, _God_ , he wouldn't condemn anyone to his fate, but it's such a _relief_ to know he's not alone.  
  
“Let's dance, huh?” he says, smiling, and Maisie nods and takes his outstretched hand as he rises from his chair.  
  
By the time they find an open spot on the floor that's big enough to dance in, the music has changed to a ballad. Steve doesn't remember it, but then they tend to favor uptempo numbers at the soda counter. He sends up a small prayer of thanks – the more slow songs, the longer he can dance – when the lyrics wash over him.  
  
_Time after time I've tried so hard to forget  
Yet even with this broken heart  
I'm so glad we met  
  
No room in my heart for somebody new  
So I'll always be faithful to you _  
  
Steve feels hot all over at the thought that someone has perfectly captured his feelings for Bucky in a corny ballad. Even so, he can't look away from Bucky, or at least the slivers of Bucky he can see through the press of slowly swaying bodies. Now that he's dancing cheek to cheek with Grace, Buck's expression has changed – where he was grinning and cocky before, he now looks like a puppet whose strings have been cut, staring at nothing. It isn't the first time Steve's seen that expression on his face lately, and he wonders what it could mean.  
  
And then Bucky's gaze catches and holds Steve's, and Steve can't breathe. God forgive him, he wants to be the one dancing with Bucky, he wants to be the one to put his arms around him and chase that haunted look from his eyes. But that's the last thing he can let Bucky see, and so he turns Maisie until he's facing in the other direction. He doesn't turn around until after the song is over, and by then Bucky's lost in the crowd.  
  
He endures another hour of this, then pleads an early shift (a lie) and the clouds of cigarette smoke aggravating his asthma (most of a truth) and escorts Maisie to the subway. Bucky and Grace look like they're going to be dancing into the small hours, but Maisie seems as eager to go as he is.  
  
At the subway entrance, she chews on her lip for a minute before saying, “Thanks for tonight, Steve. I – um – I don't want to lead you on, though.”  
  
“I'd be happy to just be friends,” Steve says hastily. “Friends with a mutual interest in art. Maybe you could show me around the new museum sometime.”  
  
She nods slowly. “Yes, I'd like that. We can get in touch through Bucky and Grace, I guess.”  
  
“Sure,” Steve says. He doesn't add that Bucky rarely goes with any girl for very long.  
  
She opens her mouth, closes it again. “I don't want you to think I'm rejecting you. It's just that – I already have feelings for someone else.”  
  
“Oh,” Steve says, nodding. “I get it. I guess he couldn't come out tonight, huh?”  
  
Maisie blushes faintly. “Oh, we're not – it's not like that. At least not for – him.”  
  
He doesn't fail to miss the pause at the end of her sentence. “Is he from Ohio, too?”  
  
Maisie looks away. “Yes. I've known him all my life.”  
  
Steve nods, then leans in, his heart pounding. “I know how you feel. There's this Brooklyn girl who's had me all tied up in knots for ages, but I know she'd never give me the time of day. Unrequited love stinks, doesn't it?”  
  
She laughs, unexpectedly. “Isn't that the truth.” She pauses, looking him over carefully. “Thanks for understanding.” Steve wonders if she knows just how much he understands, but by then the moment has passed and she's bidding him farewell with a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek before she disappears into the open wound in the street.  
  
Two weeks later, Bucky has moved on to a new girl, and Steve never sees Maisie again. There are times when he wonders what it would have been like to have someone with whom he could share this terrible secret, and to be that person for someone else. Still, even knowing that she's out there somewhere brings a small, private smile to his face every time he visits the Museum of Modern Art.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Commando Training Depot, Achnacarry, Scotland_  
_August, 1944_  
  
  
Ever since he first joined SSR, Steve's felt like he was both finally in the war and oddly detached from it. The ops against Hydra are on a separate timetable from the Allied forces' plans, sometimes ahead of the advance, sometimes behind it. This is one of the 'behind it' times, and even though they've just come off more than four months of intense raids in Northern Italy, they're all restless, chafing at being even temporarily out of the fight. It's not a feeling Steve wanted to ever have again, and with the biggest military operation in the history of the world happening without them, it's hard to avoid thinking they're not pulling their weight.  
  
It's not like they're loafing around, though – Stark has some new tech for frying Hydra's toys, and Colonel Philips has brought in a guy from Popski's Private Army to give them some pointers on combining amphibious and motorized units, since it's looking like some of their next ops will be in Holland.  
  
“I'm not cut out to be a frogman,” Dugan says after one session, already lighting his cigar as they leave the HQ for chow.  
  
“Quit griping,” Jones tells him. “Stark'll figure out a way to stick gills on you, you'll be fine.” There's a smattering of laughter, and DumDum elbows Jones just hard enough to make him stagger. They begin a playful shoving match that quickly gets under Steve's skin.  
  
“Okay, that's enough horsing around,” Steve hears himself snap, and he can practically hear six pairs of eyes swivel toward him. The rest of the walk to the mess hall is quiet.  
  
“Look,” Bucky murmurs, stretching an arm across the door to bar Steve's way after the others have already raced for first place in the chow line, “you might want to consider laying off them a little. They're just as frustrated as you are.”  
  
“Are you sure about that? They didn't spend all that time out of the fight, feeling useless.”  
  
Bucky's eyes flash. “Yeah, they're damned lucky. They got to watch a lot more of their buddies die than you did.”  
  
Steve sucks in a breath, startled and ashamed in the same moment. “God, I really am a punk.”  
  
“Naw,” Bucky says. “I get it. I do. But we've earned a rest, Steve. And this might be a castle, but it ain't no fancy resort on the French Riviera. We don't have anything to feel guilty about. Three weeks to train and remember what it's like to live something close to normal, and then we'll be right back in it again. And who knows if we...”  
  
Steve frowns at him when he trails off. “If we what?”  
  
Bucky blinks, starting as though he's coming out of a dream. “Nothin',” he mutters finally, shaking his head. “Don't listen to me.”  
  
“I never did,” Steve says, grinning, which earns him his own playful shove.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
On their last full day before shipping out, they're told that some “special guests” will be arriving to provide some entertainment that evening. As is usual in the Army, that sets off a wave of gossip and heated speculation – everybody from the Andrews Sisters to Bob Hope is rumored to be coming, or maybe it's the Andrews Sisters _and_ Bob Hope, and hey, what about that Marlene Dietrich? One of the guys in II Commando got to kiss her once, and he's been dining out on the tale for months.  
  
As for Steve and the rest of his squad, they're already back in the fight, at least in their heads. It's tough to relax when they've already revved themselves up for the next drop, which is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Still, a show is a show, and they haven't seen anything like a concert or a music hall performance in a long time. There was this little kid on a dusty road near Verona who'd treated them to a decent soft shoe while singing a charmingly off-key rendition of “When You Wish Upon A Star,” but sadly he'd run like hell as soon as Morita gave him the half a Hershey's bar he had left in his pocket.  
  
“Damn, I was hoping he'd take requests,” Bucky said, and they'd all roared with laughter.  
  
It turns out the show is being put on by Glenn Miller and his Army Air Corps band, who've only been over here for about a week. Usually they play sit-down concerts on big bases, but since Achnacarry's isolated and the numbers are small, this one's going to be a dance. Steve thinks back to the last time he saw Miller's band, to the Roseland and that corny song. He can't remember the last time he saw Bucky dance; it feels like it was a lifetime ago. In some ways he figures it was, and not only because he's grown half a dozen sizes. Neither of them is the person they were then. Bucky's feet are encased in heavy, cumbersome boots now, anchoring him to earth, his inclination to take flight countered by the weight of all he carries with him.  
  
Dernier isn't as thrilled by the news as the Americans are. “Les filles ne seront pas nombreuses,” he points out, shrugging, as though the music isn't even a consideration.  
  
“That's the joy of being one of the elite,” Jones says with a sigh. Achnacarry is a top secret facility, so unlike many bases that open their doors to local girls for dances, the only women allowed in actually work here. Steve was grateful for that the last time they were here, because it gave him an opportunity to beg off. But a bunch of barely professional musicians who wouldn't know swing if it hit them in the head isn't the same as a band from home, and when it's one of the best bands around, there's no way Steve can get out of showing up.  
  
And there's nothing he wants more that to get out of it.  
  
Since finding Bucky again, Steve's been even more determined to keep him from finding out the truth. The problem is, all the determination in the world can't protect him from Bucky Barnes, especially when they're spending every waking moment – and some of their sleeping ones – in each other's pockets. Especially since they seem to have found themselves in the middle of a war, and while the whole platoon's been walking around with a horseshoe up its collective heiney, luck has a depressing tendency to run out. Steve doesn't want his last breath to be the first time he says _I love you_ , but he can't imagine any other time where saying that out loud doesn't end with Bucky leaving him. And the thought of Bucky walking away is far more terrifying than the prospect of death.  
  
He manages to dawdle in the officer's mess for a while, and by the time he gets there the drill hall's hopping. Guys are dancing with girls, most of whom are looking more than a little worn out, but there are far more guys dancing together, and nobody seems to care. Of course, it doesn't mean anything, but the novelty of the sight hasn't worn off for Steve. For a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines a world where this happens all the time and nobody cares, nobody thinks it's wrong or a sin or –  
  
“Hey, handsome.” Steve's eyes snap open to see Bucky standing in front of him, his characteristic smirk drawn across his mug. “You wanna dance?”  
  
Steve's mouth goes totally dry. “I –” he rasps. Bucky's eyebrows shoot up, and Steve clears his throat. “Think you could throw me around like you did with those gals at the Savoy?”  
  
Bucky's eyes glitter dangerously in the lights from the stage, and Steve's lost, he's lost. “Why don't you try me?”  
  
He holds out a hand, challenging, and Steve clenches his fist briefly to calm the trembling before he reaches up to take it. He's heard that Miller's band is nearly all new, drawn from the ranks of the Army Air Corps, and there's a rawer edge to the music than there was before. They're powering through a swing version of the Anvil Chorus when Bucky leads him into the crowd, and the floor is vibrating under Steve's feet from the frenzied pounding of a couple of hundred pairs of shoes and boots.  
  
“Just because I don't wheeze any more, that doesn't mean I suddenly know how to lindy!” Steve yells over the music, in a last attempt to save himself.  
  
Utterly unsympathetic, Bucky continues to tug him forward. To Steve's relief, however, the crowd is thick and impedes their progress; by the time they reached an open spot on the dance floor, the song is ending. Steve smiles and shrugs, applauding along with the rest, and as soon as the clapping fades, another song begins, a slow one.  
  
Steve makes to turn, but before he can manage it, Bucky's hold on his arm tightens, just enough to stop him. “You welching on me?”  
  
“This isn't the same – I mean, it's kind of...” Steve babbles to an embarrassed halt, takes a deep breath. It's not like there aren't dozens of other guys dancing together, even to this, but it's easier for them. It doesn't mean everything. “Okay, fine,” he mutters, because he can't give Bucky that excuse.  
  
“Color me flattered,” Bucky shoots back, and before Steve can think of a way to apologize, Bucky's closed the final distance between them.  
  
“You wanna lead?” Bucky rasps. His breath caresses Steve's ear, and Steve shivers slightly.  
  
“N-no, you can, that's –” And yeah, this was a terrible idea, because Bucky's left hand is settling at Steve's waist, and his right is clasping Steve's left and pressing it to his heart, and _God in Heaven_ nothing has felt more right to him in his whole messed-up life.  
  
He isn't sure how his cheek ends up against Bucky's, but it doesn't matter because Buck doesn't seem to mind, and anybody who does can go jump in the lake. They sway slowly, and for once Steve knows just where to put his feet. The singer steps up to the mike, and Steve closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.  
  
_All I do the whole day through is dream of you_  
_With the dawn I still go on and dream of you_  
_You're every thought, you're everything_  
_Every song I ever sing_  
_Summer, winter, autumn, and spring_  
  
“Hey, Steve, hey.” The low rumble of Bucky's voice makes him open his eyes, though he doesn't move his head from where it rests against Bucky's cheek.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve croaks.  
  
“You okay?”  
  
“Peachy.”  
  
There's a puff of air against his ear. “Then why're you shaking?”  
  
Steve stops cold, his heart freezing in his chest. For the first time in his life, he wants to run. The music is coming to an end, and he could run if his feet didn't feel like they weighed a ton apiece.  
  
“Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, “look at me, willya?” Steve realizes that Bucky's thumb is gently caressing the back of Steve's hand, as if to soothe him.  
  
Steve shakes his head minutely, knowing Bucky will feel the motion. He can't stand to see the kindness in Buck's eyes, because Bucky would be nothing but kind; it would break him, and he can't afford to be broken now.  
  
“Captain Rogers?”  
  
Steve jerks away from Bucky at the sound of the voice. Turning, he sees the General's aide standing at parade rest, waiting for two men to stop dancing so that the war can get going again. “Yes, Major?” Steve says, and is relieved when his voice doesn't sound at all like he's falling apart.  
  
“I'm afraid we're going to have to send your team up ahead of schedule. Heavy fog conditions are now being predicted over the drop zone tomorrow night.”  
  
“Understood, sir. When do you need us?”  
  
The Major checked his wrist watch. “I make it twenty-two fifteen. Can you manage twenty-three hundred?”  
  
“Of course, Major,” Steve says. “I'll assemble my team immediately.” When he finally turns to Bucky after the General's aide has gone, there's nothing on his face but that granite set to his jaw he wears whenever they're about to walk into the fire together.  
  
“I'll round 'em up if you can supervise the loading of our gear,” Steve offers. It's pretty far from an order, but it's miles from where they were less than five minutes ago.  
  
Which is probably why Buck nods, says, “Captain,” with a brief two-finger touch to the side of his brow before he heads off, melting effortlessly into the crowd. It shouldn't hurt the way it does.  
  
They don't ever dance again. But after Bucky falls, Steve can't wait to follow his lead.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Private Function, Glasslands Gallery, Brooklyn, New York_  
_April, 2015_  
  
  
Because Tony's about the biggest smart alec who ever lived, he hires the Glenn Miller Band to play at the party celebrating Bucky's joining the Avengers. Because he's kind of a dick, he requests _The Little Man Who Wasn't There_ to be the song that opens the festivities.  
  
“Wow, he's really a dick, isn't he?” Bucky says, taking a swig of his beer, and Steve laughs at the way they're in synch even now.  
  
After five months of searching for him, Steve returned home to his apartment to find Bucky curled up in his bed, asleep, the most unlikely Goldilocks the fairy tale writers could have imagined, but no less welcome for it. He'd already started to remember, but with Steve's help and intensive counseling from a therapist friend of Sam's, he gradually regained his humanity. There were still big gaps in Bucky's memory, and some days were pretty rough, but there was a promising future ahead – for both of them. Before Bucky had come back into his life, Steve's future had seemed dim and uncertain. He'd walked around most days feeling hollowed out, like a jack o' lantern a few days after Hallowe'en that had outlived its purpose.  
  
_What makes you happy?_ Sam had asked. When Steve had told him he didn't know, that was the truth, because Bucky was gone.  
  
Sam prodded Steve until he began seeing the therapist, too, after he admitted that he felt guilty and selfish for being so damned _glad_ that Bucky was here, in spite of the hell he'd been through. It was helping, but he still hadn't told her – or anyone else, for that matter – his biggest secret. He knew things were different now, of course he did, but just because he didn't have to be ashamed of his feelings any more, that still didn't mean Bucky shared them.  
  
A couple of weeks ago, they'd moved from Avengers tower to a two-family house in Flatbush that Steve had bought with his back pay. That way, Bucky got his space, but Steve could be close to him if Buck needed him. They'd had a fight this morning – again – about Bucky paying rent. The problem was, Bucky's back pay was still tied up in government red tape, and Steve didn't give a damn about money anyway. It seemed to be important to Bucky, though, who insisted he'd get a job.  
  
“Most of the good working class jobs are gone, Buck. You could work at a burger joint for sixty hours a week and hardly have anything to show for it. What about school? If you want to go back, I can help –”  
  
“Jesus, so I can be even more in your debt?” Bucky had exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “You don't get it, do you?”  
  
_No, I don't,_ Steve had wanted to say. _Because I'll never be able to pay back everything I owe you, and you don't see me bellyaching about it._ Instead, he said, “I get that it's important to you to feel you're not a burden. But the money doesn't mean a damn thing to me – unless I can use it to help the people I care about.” He paused, trying to keep from saying too much. Since he'd gotten Bucky back, he'd been expending a hell of a lot of effort to keep from saying too much. “And you're the furthest thing from a burden there is. You're – you're –” _everything, I love you so much, I can't believe you're here, please don't ever leave me again –_ “you're more than a friend. You're...family.”  
  
Bucky had looked at him then for a long moment, studying him with those sniper's eyes until it was all Steve could do to keep from running from his own kitchen like a coward. “I'm gonna keep track of everything I owe you and pay you back,” he said finally.  
  
“Fine, but let's not worry about counting every penny, okay? I don't want you sitting hunched over your laptop every night, adding up the cost of a gallon of milk and half a dozen apples.”  
  
“Punk,” Bucky said. He sighed. “I still can't believe how much food costs, though.”  
  
“I know! You can pay five bucks for a cup of coffee. More, even.”  
  
“We used to get two steak dinners for that. With beer.”  
  
As if on command, Steve's stomach growled, and Bucky laughed. “Pavlov's dog has nothing on you, bub.”  
  
Steve opened the fridge door and tossed the carton of eggs at him. Bucky caught them, but it was close. “Just for that, you're cooking,” Steve told him, and Bucky grinned and touched two fingers to an imaginary cap, and suddenly everything was fine again.  
  
Tonight, though, Steve's cycled all the way back to restless, the too-familiar music like itching powder on his skin. He leaves Bucky talking with Natasha about the relative merits of various brands of vodka and wanders over to a deserted corner of the room. There's art hung all around the space, but there's something about this painting that draws his eye.  
  
It's a Brooklyn scene, a part of Prospect Park that doesn't look the same today. But this view is the one he remembers – the old bandstand's there, and there's an ice cream vendor in the background, drawing a swarm of kids. The focus of the painting is a woman sitting under a tree, her attention absorbed in a book. A small smile is playing at her lips, and her hair is loose and curling softly around her face. He looks down at the plaque and his breath catches in his throat.  
  
_Sunday Afternoons Belong To Us_  
_Margaret “Maisie” Kendrick, b. 1916 Columbus, OH – d.1998, Queens, NY, American painter_  
  
“Hey, wallflower.”  
  
Steve nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Bucky's voice.  
  
“Sorry,” Bucky says, a little sheepish. “I still creep up on people, I know.”  
  
Steve shakes his head. “It's fine. I was a long way away.”  
  
Bucky nods at the painting. “It's not that far. Only – ” He studies it more closely. “Yeah, I suppose it is. That dress she's wearing looks like it's a few decades old, huh?”  
  
“I met her once,” Steve says. “The artist, I mean. Only she wasn't an artist then. I'm glad to see – I'm glad she decided to try it.”  
  
“Looks like she more than tried it. You should Google her when you get home, find out about her career.”  
  
“I just hope she was happy.” Steve looks at the painting again, thinks about the implications of the title, the faint, knowing smile. “I have a feeling she was, though.”  
  
Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. “I hate thinking nearly everybody we knew is gone.”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “But we're here.”  
  
“We're here, and Glenn Miller's playing...” Bucky trails off, frowning, then suddenly snaps his fingers. “Ohio! The girls from Ohio! We took them to the Roseland, didn't we?”  
  
Steve tries to hide his surprise and probably fails. Bucky's memory is improving, but what and when he remembers is still unpredictable. “My twenty-first birthday. You got us all tickets.”  
  
“Grace, yeah. Her name was Grace.”  
  
Steve stares at him. “How do you remember that? You only dated her a few weeks!”  
  
Bucky waves a hand. “We kept in touch – as friends – for a lot longer than that. And we weren't really dating – not after she cried all over me the second time I took her out, anyway.”  
  
“Why would she do that?”  
  
Bucky keeps his gaze glued to the painting. “She was sweet on her best friend and didn't know what to do. They'd been together forever, and she didn't want to risk losing what they had.”  
  
Steve's heart stops. “You – uh, what did you say when she told you?”  
  
“Not much at first. It was hard to be heard over the sobbing. But I tried not to tell her what she should or shouldn't do, just let her figure it out for herself, you know?” Bucky leans in closer to the painting, then smiles. "Looks like she did."  
  
“That's – that's Grace?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Wow. You know, Maisie was sweet on her, too, I'm sure of it.”  
  
Slowly, Bucky turns away from the painting to meet Steve's gaze. “Imagine that.”  
  
Steve seems to have forgotten how to breathe. “Buck,” he rasps.  
  
“Dance with me,” Bucky says, holding out his hands, and Steve steps into the circle of his arms like he's never been anywhere else. The song is another corny ballad, and Steve buries his face in the crook of Bucky's shoulder and tries not to crush his best guy's toes.  
  
_This changing world, this changing scene_  
_Where is it taking us, what does it mean_  
_As long as we're certain of each other_  
_We know we don't have to be afraid_  
  
When the song comes to an end, Steve lifts his head, and what he sees in Buck's face makes his heart beat so fast he wonders if it's going back to the way it was before, like maybe the warranty on this body's suddenly expired. He tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes out.  
  
“You're sort of a dope, you know that, don'tcha?” Bucky asks him, mouth curving in fond amusement.  
  
Steve laughs, giddy; he feels like he could stretch out his arms and fly around the room. “Yeah, I know it. Sorry.”  
  
"It's okay. I'm sort of a dope myself."  
  
The music starts up again – _When You Wish Upon A Star,_ which is also probably Tony's fault. Without hesitation, Steve leans in until they're cheek to cheek. "Nah. Our timing's just been off, that's all."  
  
Bucky nuzzles Steve's ear, and Steve shudders. “What do you say we go home?”  
  
"W–we just got here. What'll everybody say?"  
  
"They'll probably say a lot after we're gone. So who cares?" He bites gently on Steve's earlobe, and Steve's eyes slam shut. "Now that we finally got our timing right, do you really want to waste another minute?"  
  
Steve shakes his head. “No, I – no, that's a good point, yeah.”  
  
Bucky chuckles as he steps back. “Smooth, Captain, real smooth.”  
  
“Jerk,” Steve says, but he's smiling. Bucky's right; let them talk. Let them talk their heads off.  
  
Steve holds out a hand; Bucky stares at it for a moment before breaking into a grin that's one part sweet and nine parts mischief. His fingers curl around Steve's, strong and warm, and this time they fall together.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Musical footnote: Glenn Miller doubtless played the Roseland in 1939, but I have no idea if it was in July. And while he toured the UK in the summer of 1944, I was unable to find out if one of his stops was Achnacarry. As is mentioned in the story, Miller's Army Air Corps Band usually played sit-down concerts, so this one's a little special. But then, so were the Commandos (Howling and otherwise). The Glenn Miller Orchestra is still playing, and you can indeed hire it for private functions, if you have the cash and the inclination.
> 
>  
> 
> Historical footnote: Yes, Popski's Private Army was totally real. Look them up – their story is pretty amazing.


End file.
